


even so shall she stand

by red_lasbelin



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, daughter problems, friendship and family - Freeform, heavy is the head who wears the crown, life after major loss, mentions of Eärendil, mentions of Glorfindel - Freeform, minor implied homophobia, survivor's guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:41:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28302507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/red_lasbelin/pseuds/red_lasbelin
Summary: In the wake of Gondolin's fall, Idril has a walk on the beach with the new king and remembers what she's lost and what she has gained.
Comments: 13
Kudos: 30
Collections: Tolkien Secret Santa 2020





	even so shall she stand

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for ehhhtelion - I hope you enjoy!

\----

Idril stood on the quay, leaning against one of the anchor posts and watching her son and the young king walk along the length. They talked animatedly about the different kind of ships that were currently berthed in the harbor – Eärendil had always been interested in the subject, which Idril thoroughly blamed on his father. Such was the way of marriage, she thought, with the faintest hint of a smile.

It was late autumn; the wind blew against the seawaters hard and she felt the weakness of the sun’s warmth. Their new residence in Sirion was almost complete as the teams of workers had picked up their pace to finish before winter proper, though the season would be far milder than anything she had experienced in Gondolin.

Gondolin…

She suspected Tuor was at a loss to know what to do with her in the aftermath of the city’s fall. She didn’t know what to do with herself. Her emotions swung wildly from one point to the next, though she worked hard to cover it with a veil of togetherness for her people’s sake. Their loss was too deep, families losing half or more of their members, the famed houses in such shambles that few called themselves by the house designations anymore, except for several who held onto the titles as a traumatized response to overwhelming change. 

The grief threatened to overwhelm her sometimes. Her father was gone – lost to flame and smoke, her only surviving parent after losing her mother to the Grinding Ice. She missed him, achingly, in the way only a daughter can. She had not always agreed with her father, and had in fact hated Gondolin, missing Nevrast and the coast, but she was different than her aunt, Aredhel. She was not one who stood against her father and shouted, but instead quietly thought her own thoughts and tried to offer her opinions when he asked them of her. Before Gondolin fell, before her world completely changed, she had thought, perhaps, even with some pride, that maybe her way was best, water wearing down stone instead of two rocks striking each other and setting off sparks. 

She had gone her own way in the end, quietly, with the creation of the tunnel; in her mind it was never outright rebellion against her father, just a possible escape from a place that in the final years felt more and more like a trap. Glorfindel had helped her, and she had lost him too, her friend with the bright smile and the brave heart. He sacrificed himself to help them escape and she would never see him again. In the end, she realized there was nothing to be proud of.

Then there were moments she would forget and realize she was happy: happy to be free of the thick stone walls, happy to be along the coast, happy to be out of the claustrophobic court life that Gondolin centered round, and happy to be alive with her husband and her son. The guilt mixed with grief came back then in the time after those moments, thick and cloying like sweet wine, clinging to her throat and causing her to tense when Tuor touched her.

She breathed deeply, letting the tangled emotions inside her rest and focus on the present instead. The sound of Eärendil’s laughter was a grounding touch to her senses. She refocused her absent gaze away from the water and held a hand out to her son as he and Gil-galad joined her.

“The one on the left – that is the cargo ship, isn’t it? Wider so it can carry more goods for trade.” Eärendil said, blond head tilted up, looking at Gil-galad. He was growing quite fast, which she supposed was Tuor’s heritage, but Gil-galad had his father’s height; she doubted Eärendil would match him even when full grown.

“Yes, that’s right. It also can be crewed by fewer men, unlike the war ships.” Gil-galad’s answering smile was easy and warm. “You have mariner aspirations? Keep that up and you might take Cirdan’s title from him.”

Eärendil tried to look unaffected by the praise, but she recognized the spark in her son’s eyes and the small but pleased quirk of his mouth.

“He’s insatiably curious and picks up whatever he can from whoever will bend an ear with some patience for his questions.” Idril said, unable to quite hide the pride in her voice. Her pride though was undercut with sorrow by a memory of her father walking up and down the family wing with the child in his arms. Known for his formality, Turgon’s surprising soft spot was for children. Glorfindel and Idril had talked about it once, over cups of mulled wine one harsh Gondolin winter, and ultimately decided it was because of the Grinding Ice and all the people lost; it made the new life that much more precious.

“Sirion was a good choice to settle then. Plenty of opportunities to get out on the water.” Gil-galad offered.

They shared a look: the news of Gondolin, Turgon’s death, and the circlet Gil-galad now wore every day as the mark of his new station lay heavy between them.

“It’s a good place, yes,” she agreed. She reached for Eärendil and gave him a hug, which he moaned in complaint about in front of someone he wanted to impress. But she did not care, ruffling her fingers through the top of his curls for good measure. He was her child, their only child, she knew after a night-dark conversation with Tuor on the road, fleeing for their lives. “Go find your father, give the king a moment’s peace.”

Earendil nodded and bounded off to the road winding through the settlement and up to the hill where Cirdan’s house was built. They watched him go, and then Idril turned and placed a hand on Gil-galad’s arm. “Walk with me? Unless you have pressing business elsewhere.”

“There always will be pressing business.” The words were Cirdan’s, she could tell, but the tone of voice and the tilt of the generous mouth were all his. “I have time until someone finds me.”

They stepped off the quay and onto the sandy beach, packed down hard by the steady in and out of the sea. Gil-galad took the side closest to the water, blocking most of the wind, and Idril tucked her arm through his. She liked Balar, she decided a little wistfully. Tuor had preferred Sirion, more space for the Gondolin refugees and so they settled there. She was raised as part of the nobility; she would always go where needed. Individualism was a double-edged sword in her extended family – it often ended lives.

“The title will take a while to get used to,” Gil-galad said quietly. “It should have gone to my aunt, of course.”

Idril shook her head. “It’s not our way. She knows this, though I suspect that rankles.”

Gil-galad gave a nod, his eyesight caught by a gull. She followed its path, swooping down to the water, then veering sharply up with an empty beak, its hunt unsuccessful.

Gil-galad slowed to a halt, forcing Idril to pause her own steps. He was two hand lengths taller than her, she had to look up at him. Good looking, though not classically handsome, the breadth of his shoulders hinted at a solidness that would come with age. His demeanor was uncharacteristically grave, a sharp contrast to his smiles for her son, and she could see where, well in the future, the worry lines would fall on his face. 

“I’m sorry about your father,” he said. “I did not wish for this.”

The material of her skirt bunched up in her clenched fist, a new habit formed from keeping such a calm face and holding back the tears. Sometimes Tuor caught her and unwound her fingers, kissing the knuckles gently; sometimes when they were alone, she cried.

“Of course you didn’t,” she said briskly, to avoid the knot in her throat. “Nobody would wish for the crown except Artanis. It ruins one’s life expectancy – not to mention the headaches.”

“The life expectancy I understand.” Gil-galad admitted. “Nobody mentioned how the circlet pinches.”

Idril laughed, reaching up and touching the band around his forehead. “I suspect it’s not sized right, you’re quite tall. Don’t be a hero – you won’t get used to it. They can adjust it for you if you speak with the smiths.”

“You mean it’s not a metaphor about how you should always feel the weight of responsibility? I am sure Círdan told me a story about that once.”

“I am sure it would be a good illustration, but you should rather solve the problem.” She let go of the circlet, hand falling to his shoulder. She reminded herself to avoid sounding motherly, of over stepping, but she found she liked him, liked the way he treated her son and spoke with Tuor. She also saw how Círdan treated him; the infamous curmudgeon clearly thought well of his ward. “You’re good with Eärendil. You’ll make a fine father someday.”

Something in his eyes shifted. It would not have been obvious to most, Idril thought, but it was the difference between a candle burning bright on its own or placed into a deep tinted lantern. The light was still there but defused.

“Ah,” she said, voice quiet under the wind. This was a look she’d seen before.

He stepped back with his left foot, shifting his weight, before he forced himself to stillness.

She did not let this deter her - he reminded her of the young horses that would be brought into Gondolin from trade trips, young and easily spooked, the training for war horses still ahead – and she brought her hands to rest on both broad shoulders to look him squarely in the eyes.

“No wife for you then?” She made sure to ask matter of factly, no sense of judgement in her tone.

Gil-galad took a deep breath, exhaled and then shrugged. “It may not be my choice. A kingdom needs heirs.”

She sighed, knowing the truth of it, knowing how their lives often were dictated by the needs of their people. But she ached for him anyway. She slid her arms around his neck and hugged him, tightly, for his own sake and for another who she would hug no longer.

He stiffened against her for the barest of moments and then relaxed before returning the embrace.

“How did you know?”

She considered the question, parsing through memories, some of them still too painful to look at for more than a moment.

“One of my dear friends felt similarly, and he was not in a position where expressing himself was an option. My father was quite strict on how the nobility were to comport themselves.”

Gil-galad made a noise of agreement. “Yes, I’ve heard stories…unbending man, the king.” He paused at that, then asked quietly, “Your friend, he didn’t make it out?”

Idril shook her head. In her mind’s eye, she could see Glorfindel, the look he gave her when he told her he was falling back to guard their escape, give them time… Sometimes she had dreams where she argued with him and convinced him to flee. But the Balrog who had spotted their escape gave her, the princess of Gondolin, no choice. With her son’s hand in hers, her husband and the few survivors that remained, she fled and left him to fend off the Balrog alone.

“No, he didn’t. My family and I owe him our lives.” Her eyes were blessedly dry, this young king was kind, but her pride could not take breaking into tears. “My father left behind a complicated legacy, Ereinion. I did not want that for my son.”

She hugged him again, then let go and took a step back so she could look at him somberly. “I am glad you have broad shoulders to carry the burden I’ve passed to you. May you have a long life and the ability to change our family’s legacy for the better.”

A range of emotions moved across his face. Idiril could only guess at them: wistfulness for the life he would not have, the simpler life he must have experienced growing up here in Balar, foster son of Cirdan and apprehension for the weight of the task. But she was right, the responsibility of the crown outweighed them all.

Finally, he nodded. “I will take all the wishes for a long life and a peaceful reign you have to offer. Every bit will help.”

“In these times it is something well worth wishing for.” Idril said. The wind began to pick up, tugging at her hair and clothes, and she took his arm again gratefully. The sign was clear it was time to head inside for shelter, to rejoin her husband and son where they were safe and had a chance to start again. “Would that there are better days ahead. But in the meantime, let’s start small with a cup of hot tea shared with family.”

\-----

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to my beta, Keiliss, who introduced me to Gil-galad the first time sixteen years ago. She put up with many questions about Balar, reminders about canon and requests for maps while gracefully dealing with my hyperventilation because Silmfic scares me sometimes.
> 
> Btw - if you enjoyed this in any way, you should check out her fantastic [Balar/Sirion series](https://archiveofourown.org/series/41221).


End file.
